On Homes and Houses
by hawkeyethehotguy
Summary: AU. She has been on the streets, nowhere to go. Then he messaged her and she knew she would sleep well tonight.
1. An Old Friend

**Hey guys! The idea for this story came to me at midnight last night. So instead of sleeping, I gave in to the temptress that is my imagination. **

**Designed to be a oneshot but who knows, I might be inclined to continue it. The rating may change as we go along as well. **

**I don't own Marvel or The Avengers, etc etc. **

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She sat on the side of the road. Legs out, head back, reclining other elbows. Beams of sunlight trickled down and danced around her, over her, though her. She had nowhere to go, so she stayed by the side of the road. Occasionally, a car would pass, slowing as they did to get a good glimpse at her, before speeding away and never looking back.

The pocket of her dark denim shorts vibrated. Sitting up, she slid her phone into the palm of her hand and shielded it with the other; the glare from the hard sun made it almost impossible to read. She smirked at the screen.

_Heard you were homeless now. I've got a spare bed if your interested. -C_

Her fingers typed away on the touchscreen briskly and nimbly. After she pocketed her phone, she stretched her appendages. They were tired and sore from motionless hours. She reached behind her for the black backpack that held the few possessions she valued enough to pack. It had served as a less than satisfactory resting platform but it was sufficient enough. At least she wouldn't be using it as a pillow again tonight on some creaky park bench. She slung the straps loosely over her shoulders and the backpack rested against her lower back.

The hike to his house took longer than usual. Her normal shortcut through the woods was blocked by damned roadside construction. The sun continued to beat down on her as she walked. Eventually she elected to put her hair up. She collected the fiery mess of curls that fell to her waist and twisted them into a fireball that sat peacefully on the top of her head, exposing her raw neck and shoulders to the bombardment of the heated light.

Water. She could use a drink of water. Too bad she finished up her last bottle this morning. Dehydration was starting to set in, she knew. But she was almost to her destination. With new purpose, her feet carried her through the bustling streets the remainder of the seven miles.

Mercifully, the sun began to retreat behind the tree line as she arrived at her journeys end. The pale pinks swirled with the rich oranges high above her head.

He had been expecting her. Though the window on the second floor over the garage, she saw an arm gesture towards the backyard. Stealthily, she scaled the chain-linked fence that stood a foot taller than her 5'4 stature and landed gracefully on the other side.

She sauntered to the back door and it opened for her as she approached it. When she entered, she glanced around the kitchen slowly. Even though the room was only lit by the dim remains of sunlight, she knew every detail to it, down to the placement of the knives and forks. Then she spun to meet him. He stood beside the door, his arms crossed over his chest, studying her.

"How long?" his voice was cool but she could hear an edge behind it.

"Two weeks," she admitted quietly.

He squeezed his eyes shut. "Dammit," he yelled, "Dammit Nat, why didn't you come here the second the rat-bastard kicked you out?"

She stayed silent. Only he was allowed to call her 'Nat'. Anyone else who tried wasn't able to speak for much longer afterwards.

"Where have you been sleeping?" he asked after a moment, his voice somewhat calmer.

"I stayed at Starks the first few nights," she answered placidly, shrugging her shoulders, "but now I've got a bench at the park reserved for me."

He dragged his hand down his face frustratedly. "Seriously? Why was I the last to know!" He was angry now. Angry that she kept her situation from him. Angry that she didn't let him help her.

"Where's your brother?" she inquired, ignoring his last question. She peered through the rest of the silent and now darkened house.

"Drunk and asleep," he answered her impatiently, "Now tell me why I had to hear about this from some gossiping cashier at the goddamn grocery store!"

"When'd you find out?" she asked walking to the sink and grabbing a clean glass in an overhead cabinet, again ignoring his demands.

"This morning," he gave up on trying to get any answers out if his oldest friend.

With her back to him, she let her pokerface fall. She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. "So you contacted me as soon as you found out?" she hastily gulped down the water. The cool liquid cascaded down her throat and pooled comfortably in her stomach.

"I hadn't even left the store," he said, striding over to her across the room.

She couldn't turn around to face him. The mask hadn't come back up yet. The mask that she spent years perfecting. The mask that protected her from silly emotions like this, A lone tear welled up and spilled over onto her cheek.

He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and spun her so they stood face to face. The same hand lifted to her face to wipe away the saltwater streaking down her cheek. That surprised him to find. The only other time he had ever seen her cry was when they were five and she scraped her knee after he not so kindly pushed her off the slide. It was frightening, but in a weird way it was comforting; she wouldn't let her guard down in front of just _anybody_. He leaned her into him and pressed his lips to her forehead.

"You'll take my bed," he told her, wrapping his arms protectively around her, "I'll sleep on the couch. We'll figure out something more permanent tomorrow."

They stood together in the darkness of twilight. She could hear the ka-thump of his heart and moved with the rise and fall of his chest.

"Thanks Clint," he whispered, biting her lip.

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**Let me know what you think! **

**Also, I was having some trouble deciding how old they were here but I think I settled on 17 for Natasha and 19 for Clint.**


	2. Waking up

**Once again, the muses of inspiration hit me at 11pm and I wrote well into the morning. Hope you like it!**

**I don't own Marvel or anything that has to do with the Avengers, etc, etc.**_  
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As the bright light of a new day penetrated through the thin purple curtain that lay over the large double-paneled window, she stirred and blinked her eyes a few times. That was the first time she had slept through the night in weeks. She untangled herself from the comforting black blanket and detached herself from the oversized pillow she had clung to tightly throughout the night, afraid someone would snatch it away from her at a moment's notice.

She glanced around the room, disoriented and slightly confused. But then she immediately recognized it as his room. It was a simple room and hadn't changed much over the years; the walls were still white, the twin-sized bed was still in its corner against the back wall, the picture of his parents still lay on his bookshelf. A few things, however, were different, like the mass of dirty laundry sprawled across the wood floor or the Muse posters lining the wall beside the door.

With a tired groan, she tossed into her side. Then she spotted a picture. It was old, the colors washed and the paper thinning. It wasn't in a frame or hung up. It was just sitting on his nightstand, leaning against a lamp that was missing its shade. She propped herself up on her elbow as she studied the picture, her blazing curls whipping around her shoulder with the movement.

She remembered the picture. Remembered where it was taken and remembered when. They had to be no more than seven and nine. Ten years ago. They were in her backyard. Well, it used to be her backyard. Now she didn't even have a home. But back then it was hers. Oh how she loved that yard. They were standing in front of her woods, clad in matching black and purple bathing suits because they had gone shopping together, running back and forth through a spinning sprinkler. She smiled weakly at the memory.

A light tap at the door roused her from her thought. Instinctively, she sat up, clutching the knife she kept safely underneath her pillow. Her body froze as the door handle jiggled. Thank god she remembered to lock it.

"Clint," the voice called impatiently from the other side of the door, "it's almost noon. Get your lazy fuckin' ass outta bed." She heard heavy footsteps retreat downstairs.

Her grip on the blade loosened. She let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding and rubbed her eyes wearily. Then her stomach moaned, begging to be filled.

She would have to wait until his brother left for work before breakfast- or rather lunch- would make its way into her growling stomach. But he would be gone soon enough. She stood up, stretching her arms over her head, and searched the tight room until she found her backpack. Digging through it, she located a suitable change of clothes and stuffed her previous outfit back in the bag.

She leaned her elbows on the windowsill just beside the desk and stared out at nothing. The constant breeze ruffled through the tress and she could tell it was considerably cooler than yesterday. Faint joyful screams of children rang as they raced across the street, barefoot and energized. Then a group of them retreated into one of the houses. She frowned and returned to sit on the bed.

Fifteen minutes passed before she heard- and felt- the front door slam with enough force the shake the entire house. Slowly, she approached the bedroom door and poked her head out into the hallway. The coast was clear. She quietly tiptoed down into the living room, searching for her friend. The sound of something frying drew her to the kitchen.

He was standing over the stove, lost in concentration as he attempted to flip what looked to be a pancake. When he overshot and half of the meal landed on the counter instead of the pan, she covered her mouth to stifle a quite giggle as he cursed.

She stood in the doorway for a few minutes longer as he attempted round two, this time successfully flipping the entire thing onto its uncooked side. As he finished cooking, he slid the pancake onto a plate and piled on a batch of scrambled eggs and a side of toast. That's when he first felt her eyes on him. She was the only person that could ever sneak up on him, and that was saying something.

"How long have you been standing there?" he asked without looking at her.

"A while," she smirked, pushing herself off of the doorframe and sitting down at the table. "You gonna clean up that first try?"

He chuckled. "You saw that?" he sighed and turn to face her. Her bright blue eyes glowed as she smiled and nodded in affirmation. "Damn. Alright, well I'm an archer not a cook. Don't hold it against me." He set the plate in front of her and she glanced at it questioningly. "Bon appetite."

"You made this for me?"

He looked down at her with one eyebrow raised. "Yeah."

"Oh."

She didn't know how to respond so she just picked up her fork and shoveled a mouthful of the buttery pancakes past her lips. A gratified moan escaped her lips.

He smiled satisfactorily and sat down beside her and sipped on a mug of coffee. "Good?"

Only able to nod, she continually attacked her plate until nothing but crumbs remained.

"That was the best meal I've had in weeks," she admitted. "Well, besides the time I ate at Tony's but this is definitely in the top three."

"I'm glad to hear it," he grinned. "How'd you sleep?"

"Great, actually" As he stood up to refill his mug, his back hissed and cracked. She bit her lip, guilt washing over her. "I take it the couch wasn't fantastic."

"I've slept on worse." And she knew he had.

When he was fifteen he ran away. His parents were dead and his brother had turned to drinking. It was similar to her current predicament, except he had been out much longer than she hadn't been in the position to take him in.

Eventually, after nearly two months of sleeping on park benches and pickpocketing to get his next meal, and after weeks of begging from her, he returned home. If she hadn't, he'd probably still be out there, probably in jail or maybe even dead.

"I don't want to keep your bed," she told him squarely after a minute of silence, "I'll take the couch. When Barney wakes up, I'll hide outside or something."

He shook his head. "Natash-"

"Don't 'Natasha' me, Clint," she warned, "I was fine on my own. You're already doing more than you have to."

"I don't have to be doing any of this!" he shouted suddenly, slamming his cup on the table. Anyone else would have jumped at the outburst but she was so in control of herself that her face didn't even twitch. He relaxed, and walked over to her. "I'm doing this because I want to help you. I want you to be safe."

"You don't have to coddle me. I'm a big girl, I can take care of myself!" she stood up to meet his eyes.

"I know," he whispered, more to himself than to her.

"I won't be sleeping in your bed tonight," she said firmly. And that was the end of it. He may be older and bigger than she was, but when she demanded something be done, you better damn sure listen- a lesson he had to learn on more than one occasion with the scars to prove it. Besides, he wasn't going to force her to do anything she didn't want to.

"Fine," he complied, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Good," she nodded and walked passed him, inserting the empty plate into the sink. She turned her head over her shoulder as she ran water over the dish. "You have work today?"

"Nope," he replied, popping the 'p'.

"Wanna go down to the shooting range?" she inquired, already knowing the answer.

"Hell yeah," he smirked.

She flicked the faucet off and pushed him towards the door.

"By the way," she called to him as she laced up her favorite pair of combat boots, "nice picture on your nightstand. Never pegged you for the nostalgic type."

He knew the one she was referring to and smiled.

"What can I say," he shrugged, "we looked pretty fucking cool in those bathing suits."

They two piled into his old '92 Jetta and pealed out of his driveway far faster than was legal, but they didn't care.

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**What did you think? :)**

**Hopefully, I'll have the next chapter up either tomorrow or the next day!**


	3. Guns and Arrows

**Before we get started, I just wanted to thank everyone who has read, reviewed, alerted, or favorited this story so far. You guys are the best!**

**I don't own Marvel, etc, etc**

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With the sunroof open and music blaring, they screeched recklessly into the dirt parking-lot beside the range. He cut the engine and twisted the key out of the ignition. She collected her hair into a messy ponytail as he want around the back of the car to get his duffle bag. Together, they marched up to the gate, their long strides instep with one another's.

A dark skinned man with an eyepatch stood at the mouth of the gate, leaning against it on one arm.

"Barton," he greeted as they approached. Then he looked to his side. "And Romanoff! Long time no see, Natasha. Where you been?"

"Here and there," she replied, pushing the black sunglasses she threw on before they left off her eyes and onto her head. "I need to get back in my rhythm."

"Well," he said, pushing the metal gate open, "I'm always glad to see my two favorite customers."

They smiled and walked past the older man with a friendly salute.

Following the dirt path past the large tan warehouse and the closer-ranged fields, they settled at the long-range section beside the obstacle course and began silently unpacking their weapons on a nearby table. Out of the duffle bag they pulled three pistols, ammunition, throwing knives, and a large black case. She began loading the guns while he set his case down and popped it open. He gripped the bow that was in its collapsed position, held it in front of himself, and flicked it effortlessly to life. The action always brought a smile to his face.

"You good, Nat?" he called over to her. He clicked his quiver in place and slung it around his back.

She loaded her last pistol and grinned. "Ready."

"Range or course?" he asked with one eyebrow raised.

"Course," she answered, smiling.

About 500 feet from the fields entrance stood the wooden archway for the course's opening. It had a maze-like layout, twisting whoever braved it with tight turns and unexpected hurdles.

"I got this one, Barton," she holstered two of the guns and cocked the third. "Keep my time?"

"You got it," he smirked, patting her on the shoulder.

She walked up to the starting line, let out a deep breath, and closed her eyes. This was familiar, a routine in her life that was anything but conventional. Her fingers habitually wound and coiled around the black pistol in her right hand. He counted her off and on the bell, her eyes snapped open and she bolted into the course.

Immediately on her right, two metal targets popped up. She shot them down effortlessly, still on the run. Sharp left. On both sides of the narrow corridor, three pairs of painted targets erected. She quickly unholstered her second gun and blazed down the hallway. This was child's play. Another left. Out onto the field. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Five targets, scattered, some behind "civilians" and others positioned behind cars or trees. One, two, three, four, five. They all went down on direct hits. Into the building. Two at the back windows. Her first gun clicked and stalled. She huffed, dropping it, and swiftly slid her third pistol into her hand to take out the remaining target. Running out of the building, she jumped the three stairs and sprinted to the finish line, shooting four targets on her way out; all perfect head-shots. She was breathing heavily as she passed the finish line, arriving just feet from where she started, but smiling.

"That felt good. How'd I do?"

"43.32," he whistled.

"Last time I got 42 seconds," she breathed, re-holstering her guns and pushing stray strands of fiery hair put of her face.

"You're out of practice," he grinned as she punched him in the arm.

"Yeah," she scoffed, "why don't you go through and we'll see who-"

"Relax," he told her, "What has it been, two months since your last run? I bet if you did it again, you'd get under 40."

"Alright, once they set it back up I'll go in for another round."

"Good," he nodded, "In the meantime let's get some sharpshooting in. The targets are calling my name."

"Clint, Clint," she cried mockingly in a squeaky voice, walking backwards toward the range, "Clint! Come shoot arrows at us, Clint."

He snorted a laugh and jogged slowly to catch up to her and followed her to the wooden awning behind the shooting line.

She took up a seat behind the line and toyed with a blade between her hands as he set up at he far edge of the range, poised in front of the row of targets. They were hundreds of yards away, just small circles from her perspective. But she knew he would have no chance of missing them.

Then, on some sort of unheard cue, he snapped his arm behind him to the quiver to grab an arrow, pulled it into the bow, and released in one sharp, smooth motion. He didn't wait to see if it hit, he continued on down the line. Without pausing, he fell into an effortless rhythm, alternating between reaching behind him and shooting. Ten targets in ten seconds. When he was finished, he let his arms fall to his side. Natasha grabbed a pair of binoculars that sat across the table. With her now enhanced vision, she could see every target impaled by a black arrow in a perfect bulls eye.

"Ten for ten," she called, running her eyes back over the targets.

"I know," he smirked, slinging his bow across his back, "Come on, let's go get them."

The two flocked into a golf cart that stood on call and raced up the field. They stopped at the edge of the grass line and they both started for the first target.

"You never told me," he started as he yanked the first arrow from deep within the red.

"Told you what?" she asked, heading for the second target.

"Why you were out in the streets."

She froze momentarily before regaining herself. With more force than necessary, she jerked the arrow out of the target. "It's a long story."

"I've got time," he said, walking past her.

"It's a long story that I don't feel like telling," she sighed.

He stopped and rolled his eyes. "Then give me the sparknotes version."

She drew a breath and let it out slowly. He was the only one that ever pressed her about personal matters; no one else would dare. Not usually after the death glare she would send the unsuspecting person the first time around. But her looks seemed to have no effect on him.

"Dad was drunk," she recounted, padding over to the next target over. His body froze and his head snapped up, following her closely as she moved and spoke. "He came after me." She wrenched out another deeply embedded arrow and stared at it. "He punched me. Hard, square in the jaw. That's when I lost it. I grabbed the bottle of vodka from his hand and shattered it over his head before he knew I even picked myself up off the ground."

She spared a glance to her side. He was still motionless, but his hands were balled so tight she could see the whites of his knuckles. She decided to continue as she headed towards the next arrow.

"When dad came to, he was just sober enough to put the glass shards littering the ground and his bloody aching head together," she smirked ruefully, "He literally pushed me out the door and locked it behind me." She left out the part about her him putting a gun to her head and saying if he ever saw her again, he would shoot. "I had to brake in to my own room to grab a few things before getting the fuck away from there."

"So that's why-"

"Yep," she interrupted, "Stark's was closer anyway. By the way he reacted when he opened the door, I can guess my face looked pretty bad. After two nights there, I decided I was overstaying my welcome so I hightailed before he woke up. Luckily the nights the past week have been warm."

"I'll kill him," he muttered, jerking his head to meet her eyes. Now that he knew where to look, he could see the faintest outline of a bruise below her right cheekbone.

"Clint-"

"I'll kill him," his voice was calm but his eyes were fierce, wide with rage and realization. "And that's why you didn't tell me! Because you knew this is how I would react."

She didn't say anything. She just stood there and nodded. Suddenly, she was very glad she left out the part about the gun.

"Natasha, I can't believe you kept something like this from me."

"I didn't think murder would look too good on your permeant record. You're too pretty for jail," she smirked.

Only she could joke about something so serious. He was glad for it, too. Her smile always seemed to bring him back.

"If I ever see him, I-"

"And I won't stop you," she strode over to him and placed her petite hand between his neck and his shoulder, "Just don't go looking for trouble."

He inclined his head. Slowly, he lifted lifting his hand and he brushed her hair aside, his thumb floating over the patch of pale bluish-black skin. She curled her fingers around his hand and brought it back down to his side. Their eyes locked, blue on blue.

She smiled softly and patted the hand that rested on his shoulder. "Let's get the rest of your arrows, I think the course is about ready."

He returned her smile and followed her, retrieving his fired arrows and returning them to the quiver. Then the two of them darted back to the golf cart.

In the back of his mind, her story replayed itself as she reran the course. The clang of gunfire echoed as did the screech of bullets on metal. In no time, she darted out from the finish line with a devious smile plastered to her face.

"Time?" she demanded between heavy breaths.

He peeked at the stopwatch and smirked. "39.22"

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**I feel like Clint would be naturaly calm and reserved but when he's around Natasha, something comes alive in him and a lot of emotions sort of wake up. Or maybe I'm just trying to make an excuse for having him blow up in every chapter.**

**Tell me what you thought! Reviews**** are greatly appreciated. **


	4. Red and Blue

**New chapter! (I don't sleep, I write) **

**Anyway, this is more of a filler chapter so it's a bit "fluffier" than the others but I think our buddies might run into some trouble next chapter. ;)**

**I don't own Marvel, etc, etc.**

**Enjoy!**

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Someone was banging on a door. She reluctantly cracked one tired eye open and the morning sun consumed her vision, blinding her to the point where she had to take refuge by smashing a pillow to her face. Then banging again.

"Clint," a voice called. It was steaming from the second floor.

With a silent gasp, she jostled upright, causing the pillow to catapult over the room and out into the hallway. Her back creaked and her joints cracked. He was right: the couch wasn't very comfortable. But she too had slept on worse.

Impulsively, she flipped herself off the couch and bolted for the south corner of the room. She dove behind the forest green half wall dividing the miniature living room and the less than impressive foyer. Another round of banging. Then she could hear the muffled objection from him on the other side of the thin door.

"I don't give a shit," the voice bellowed a reply, "Get your ass out of bed."

Harsh footsteps clamored down the stairs and the structure squealed with each footfall. She peaked past the edge of the wall before quickly ducking back behind it. Her complaining back screamed in protest as she slumped down, prompting her to mumble profanities in Russian under her breath. When his brother passed, her eyes followed the older boy until he was safely down the hallway. Hastily, she darted for the stairs- nearly tripping over that damned pillow- and climbed them as rapidly but as quietly as possible.

She didn't even bother knocking; she just barreled into the room. She shut the door behind her, leaning her back against it, rather out of breath.

"Good morning to you too," he greeted coolly.

At the sound of his voice, she snapped her head to the side. He was sitting on the bed ruffling his hair, legs over the side, feet on the ground, in nothing but his navy blue boxers. His core, flat and defined, flexed as he breathed. Her eyes trailed up to his chest to his broad, rugged shoulders, then down his muscular arms that were roughly the size of her leg. They were impressive when he was wearing a shirt, but completely exposed they were... wow.

He cleared his throat loudly as he stood up, and she realized she had been ogling.

"So," he started, finding a pair of dark-wash jeans on the ground and snatching them up, "I take it your little wake-up-call plan didn't work?"

As if on cue, her phone jingled and buzzed in her pocket. She slid it into her palm, confirmed the alarm she had set for ten minutes before his brother woke was late, and threw it on the bed.

"Fucking technology," she mumbled.

He snorted and pulled his legs through the pant holes. "We're definitely going to have to think of a new plan then." He buttoned his jeans and then stretched his bulky arms above his head and yawned.

She knew the way other girls looked at him on the street. She knew the stares and the dropped jaws and the whispers. She even knew the death glares from the girls who thought they were a couple, taut with jealousy. When she was younger, she hadn't known what the others saw in him. All she saw was her snarky old friend who could hit a target from a quarter mile away. Blindfolded. But now...

He dropped into the chair at his desk rested his hands behind his head.

"You sit like a whore," she snorted, nodding towards his less than elegant sitting position. He winked and stretched his legs out further, coaxing a laugh from her.

She finished giggling and collapsed onto the bed beside her. A pleased grunt fell from her lips as her aching back connected with the firm but forgiving mattress. But as the aftershock jiggled and her bounced body, she realized, in her haste, she forgot something very important down-

"Clint!"

-stairs.

"Fuck," she muttered.

"Get under the bed," he commanded.

She complied as she heard the hard footsteps ascend the stairs. Nudging herself off the bed, she caught her body in a pushup position and tumbled under the wooden bed frame in one swift motion.

The door burst open- she hadn't locked it- and she saw a pair of boots strut into the room.

"Clint," his brother came to a halt in front of him.

She craned her neck, attempting the get a better view of the situation. Standing with his back to her, his brother was holding her cherry red bra by a single strap out to his side, amused.

"You have company over last night?" he smirked to his older brother, pretending to look for a shirt in the mess enveloping his floor.

"I was about to ask you the same question."

"Nope," he lied, straightening his back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her phone, lit up and lying plainly in sight on his bed. He nonchalantly threw the shirt he had picked up, aiming it to land perfectly over the phone, not drawing the attention of his brother.

"Found this on the couch," his brother continued, "You back together with Bobbi?"

That struck a nerve with him, she knew it. She watched his mouth twitch and his body tense. "No."

"Well whoever your little fuck buddy is," his brother smirked, shoving the bra at his chest, "make sure they get this back. Oh," his brother said as he turned on his heels to exit the room, "and if I find a condom wrapper stuffed between the pillows, I'm coming after your ass, you hear me?"

He responded by slamming the door in his brothers face.

At the sound of the door lock clicking into place, she rolled out from the crammed space. He stood over her, eyeing her with a small smirk. She stood up and snatched the bra from his offering hand, holding it the same way his brother had.

"Turn your back," she ordered, walking to the far side of the room.

"Nat-"

"Turn around!" she command again. He threw his hands up in the air and faced the opposite side of the room.

It was his turn to gawk. From the small mirror conveniently positioned on his desk, he could see her bare back, smooth and flawless, as she wrenched her shirt over her head. She positioned her brilliant, waist length curls to the front of her body, unveiling the perfect curvature of her figure. Her thin but strong arms flexed behind her to clasp the hooks in place and she pulled the bright straps up and over her petite shoulders, releasing them with a snap. Out of her black backpack beside her, she grabbed a grey tank top and slid her head and arms thought it gracefully. When she turned around, he jerked his head back forwards.

"Okay," she gave him the all clear and he pivoted on his heels.

He let out an exasperated sigh and toppled onto the bed. "That was too close."

"Agreed."

"If he finds out-"

"I know, Clint," she stopped him, "I know."

Their conversation ended there and they sat in mutual silence until the house shook with his brother's exit.

"I'm starving," he admitted as he propelled himself off the bed. Silently, she followed him out of the room. He made a beeline for the kitchen and grabbed a box of cereal from the cupboard, setting it on the table.

"What, no pancakes?" she asked, digging two bowls out of an adjacent cupboard.

"I'm out of supplies," he disclosed, plucking a quart of milk from the refrigerator. A quick glance inside revealed only another carton of milk, a bowl of leftover spaghetti, and a full case of beer resided in the fridge. She debated for a moment before darting down the hall without a word. He filled their bowls in her short absence and set one down in her place. The stairs squeaked on her descent. She walked placidly back into the kitchen, throwing something onto the table that landed with a thump.

Upon closer inspection, it was a wad of money, thick and larger than his palm.

"What's this," he asked, stabbing his spoon towards the bundle.

"Cash," she said coolly.

"I can see that," he smirked, "I mean where'd you get it?"

"Remember how I had to break back into my house?" she grinned ruefully, "Well I paid my father's stash a little visit."

"How much?"

"Three k."

He nearly choked on the mouthful had had just deposited into his mouth. A mixture of coughing and laughing took over his body.

"Well Jesus, Nat," he huffed after his fit subsided, "You could have been living at a fucking hotel on that."

"I've been saving it for something special," she smirked, "Now come on; you're driving me to the store. I'm thinking butter, eggs, and oh, maybe some maple syrup."

She clutched his arm and dragged him towards the door, abandoning their bowls in favor of a far more mouthwatering treat.

* * *

**What did I say about the "fluff". It wasn't _true_ fluff but I think it's about as close as Clint and Natasha will really ever get to it. **

**Let me know what you think! I love hearing your opinions. I'm always open to hearing tips and ideas.**

**I think I've got some interesting events in store for these two :D**


	5. Supermarkets

**Sorry about the lack of an update yesterday. But to make up for it, have an extra long chapter in which Natasha and Clint have a fairly eventful trip to the supermarket!**

**And before you get started, I'd just like to thank again everyone who reviewed, alerted, or favorited this story. All of you guys rock!**

**I don't own Marvel, etc, etc.**

* * *

"Where the fuck did this storm come from," Clint complained, cranking his windshield wipers to high.

Minutes ago, was the sun shining in the sky, only to be swirled away by harsh foreboding clouds. Then, half way to the market, the bombardment began. Cracks of light pealed the grey sky and thunderous booms shook the small car. Buckets of water flooded from the sky and pelted the asphalt, threatening to break it with their sheer force.

As he attempted to maneuver through the sudden onslaught, she peered out her window distastefully. Damned weather. She unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned into the back of the car, fishing for sweatshirts. Once she found two desirable options, she tossed one onto his lap and slung her arms through the other. She then rummaged around under her passenger seat until her hand fell upon something metal. Hand clasped around the handle, she pulled out the 9mm.

"What's that for?" he asked suspiciously, sparing a glance as he nearly collided with a Honda.

She cocked the gun. "In case we run into trouble."

"You planning on running into trouble?" he smirked.

"I like being prepared," she replied, her face adamant. Considering the neighborhood they were currently in, it was better to be safe than sorry. The blade she always carried on her person would only get her so far if something were to... happen.

They eventually arrived at the market only to be forced to park in the back lot. Apparently, when the heavens open up and the entire Pacific Ocean plummets the ground, people take refuge in supermarkets.

"It's going to be crowded," she grumbled, banging her head against the window.

"No shit," he growled. They watched as a group of known burglars and brutes, ones he knew all too well, paraded into the store for cover and he sighed. Reaching under his seat, he grabbed his own 9mm and tucked it in his pants. She smirked as he covered it with his shirt and pulled his hood up over his head. "Let's get this over with; I'm starving."

Bravely, they pushed out of the car and sprinted for the entrance. By the time they were under the shelter of the building, they were already soaked to the bone. He shot her an annoyed look as they shook out their bodies but she just rolled her eyes and dragged him towards they dairy section, bobbing through the masses gathered near the front.

As he picked out butter, weighing the brand with the cow as their logo and the brand with the barn between his hands, she was on the opposite end of the aisle, grabbing a carton of eggs. From the corner of her eye as she reached into the massive refrigerator, she detected a blonde exiting the crowd, ogling him as he continued to deliberate between the two products. She froze, pretending to be searching intently for a particular type of yogurt.

The blonde- who bore a striking resemblance to his ex-girlfriend, she noted- ambled up to him. She watched the two as the blonde flipped her hair and initiated a conversation with him; it was probably something stupid about the weather by the fragments she could hear and what she could read from the blonde's lips.

When he gazed up at the blonde, he stiffened and took a reflexive step away from her. She was right: the resemblance was uncanny. Even from across the aisle, her tuned senses could perceive his sudden unease; the boy who never lost his cool, unnerved by a complete stranger. It must have been one helluva breakup for him to react like this. Not that he ever talked about it, nor did she ever bring it up. He cleared his throat and made an effort and polite conversation.

The blonde, who hadn't picked up on his discomfort, laughed a little too loudly at his reply and closed the gap he created between the two, continuing to blab about the threat of a blackout. The smile, the stare, the hair flipping: it was classic flirting.

She ground her teeth together unconsciously. Riled, she seized the first container of yogurt she laid her hand on and strolled over to the other end of the isle.

"Clint, honey," she called to him with her best fake smile plastered across her face. When she reached the two, she linked her arm into his. "I got the eggs," she giggled, speaking a tone much higher than her natural voice.

He gave her a surprised look, asking with a slight widening of his eyes what the hell she was doing. She answered it with a slight upward twitch of her eyebrow and he immediately understood, playing along. "Ah, great babe," he replied with a smile to rival her own.

The dumbfounded expression cloaking the blonde's previous grin was so incredibly satisfying.

"You ready to go?" he asked, snaking his arm around her back and pulling her closer to him.

"Yep," she squeaked. She leaned in to plant a kiss just off his lips. If her actions had taken him by surprised, he hid it well. Maybe she should suggest careers in acting later.

The blonde averted her eyes, glancing back towards the crowd. "I, uh, think I see my friend. It was nice talking to you though."

"Likewise," he smirked as the blonde retreated quickly out of the isle.

"Jealous?" he mused when the blonde was safely out of earshot.

She chuckled lightly and turned out of his arm, falling out of character. "Hardly. I was just helping a friend."

He glanced down at the items in her arms. "I thought you hated blueberry."

"I love it," she lied, frowning. Of course she had to pick up blueberry yogurt and of course he had to know she always had certain distaste for the fruit.

He grinned victoriously and she jutted an elbow into his diaphragm, which he avoided easily.

"Shut up," she fought a smile, "Let's go check out. And 'babe'? Really?"

"Hey, you caught me off guard!" he nudged her with his shoulder. "And mmm, and what about that kiss?"

So it had surprised him. She smirked boldly and rolled her eyes. "I wanted to sell it, didn't I? You're welcome by the way."

He chuckled quietly. "Yeah, alright, thanks."

They made a quick pit stop in the isle that housed the syrup before heading back to the masses and standing in line to pay for their items. After well over a half hour of a slow moving queue, the entire store went black. Frightened and surprised gasps circulated throughout the store as a crack of thunder followed the disappearance of light. In the darkness, he instinctively reached to his side, searching for her. His hand gripped her shoulder.

"I'm here," she reassured him.

A backup generator roared to life, only illuminating a sixth of the ceiling lights but it was enough to regain vision.

"The streetlights are probably out," he said gravely, "Driving's going to be a mess. And forget about getting out of here." The entrance was blocked by roughly two hundred men, women, and children gathered around the front of the store, watching as the storm tore through the town.

A small boy, no more than six, began to cry beside him. "We-can't get o-o-out," the boy sniffled, "The do-ors c-can't o-open. We're t-t-trapped!"

"No, we're not trapped," he consoled, kneeling beside the boy. The kid was smart, connecting the lack of power to the doors that ran on electricity. "Those doors are pretty easy to open; I'm good at opening doors." He winked over his shoulder at her and she smirked.

"Besides," he continued," you don't really want to be going out in that do you!" A small crash of thunder emphasized his point.

The kid ran his sleeve across his nose and coughed a laugh. "N-no."

"There we go," he smiled, ruffling the kid's hair. "And think of it this way: if you get hungry, there's a whole aisle of cookies waiting for you!"

The mother shot him an unenthusiastic but grateful look but the kid grinned at the prospect, the remains of tears still wetting his eyes, and turned to the young woman, begging for a box of Oreos. The mother told the boy to wait until the checkout line became operational. This was a good enough answer for the boy, who continued to smile.

As he straightened himself out, she watched him, smiling softly at him when he turned to her. She nodded a small nod at him. He nodded back.

The lights that were currently shining continued to flicker throughout the store with every hard gust and every thunderous boom.

"You know what, let's get out of here. I don't care if we get a little wet," she proclaimed after another five minutes, gathering their groceries off the belt. "I'm sure they won't miss these."

"Yeah?" he raised an eyebrow. "And you mean completely drenched. The second we walk out there, we'll be soaked."

"You really want to stay here and wait god knows how long to pay for a carton of eggs and some maple syrup? It's not like this storm'll let up any time soon. Come on."

He smirked. "Right behind you. The fire escapes would probably be-"

Just then, three men toting guns burst out of one of the isles, shouting and screaming at the masses.

"I WANT EVERYBODY ON THE GROUND NOW!" the taller, dark haired one commanded the loudest. The man was the leader of the group of thugs they saw earlier. Guess they couldn't resist the temptation for thieving and looting during mass blackout.

The people were confused, not entirely understanding the gravity of the situation. They all moved too slowly for the man because he quickly pulled the trigger of his pistol twice and two bullets lodged themselves into the ceiling, eliciting screams from a great majority of the crowd of refugees. All complied.

She had ducked immediately when the men appeared, pulling him down alongside her. They were at a checkout isle far to the left of the crowd, not under the full attention of the thugs. Good.

She reached for the gun behind her back. A hand on her shoulder prompted her to pause. He was looking at her, his eyes full of... some would call it fear or anxiety. But she knew him better than anyone. He was agitated, angry. He had a colored past with these people, the sort of people that nobody dared to fuck around with and lived to tell the tale. If they spotted him, he would be dead. Well, if they could catch him. But he knew if he was killed, she was as good as dead too.

"No," he whispered urgently, "You can't just go in guns blazing, Nat."

"I could take out-"

"No!" he interrupted her forcefully, "You'd end up just getting someone hurt or killed in the crossfire."

She sighed and slumped back down. When he moved to slide behind the counter, she went to follow him. He stuck his hand up to stop her.

"Why fucking not," she mouthed.

"I'm going around from behind," he revealed, pulling the gun from his jeans.

"You need backup."

"I _need _you to sit tight."

"Look Clint, I get that you have a past with these guys but we're a team. What happened to 'no guns blazing'?"

He gave her an apologetic look. "Come on, Nat. Just trust me." And she did, with her life.

He disappeared behind the counter. But then he popped his head back in front of it. "Besides, I see better from a distance," he smirked before shrinking back and darting for cover behind a mountain of soda cans.

She watched him trail the perimeter, sticking to the shadows of the building. When he fell back to the rear and she couldn't see him anymore, her eyes waited on the ends of the isles, occasionally catching a glimpse of a flash of blue- the color of his sweatshirt. She was relieved she gave him that one instead of the bright red hoodie she had originally picked out.

The dark haired man made his way towards her and she dropped her head to avoid giving away his position to the criminals.

"Oi sweetheart," the man gestures for her to stand, waving the gun at her. Her jaw set at the nickname.

She obeyed, rising to her feet.

"You were with a man." It wasn't a question, it was a fact. She shook her head anyway.

The man grew angry and grabbed her arm with his free hand. "Don't lie, girl."

"I'm n-not!" She added a shake to her voice, feigning fear when all she really wanted to do was kick this man's ass. But she waited, trying her best to 'sit tight'. Well, as much as she could while become some sort of hostage.

The dark haired man growled and pulled her towards the other gun-toting criminals. "Hold her down," he commanded.

The other two men each grabbed her by an elbow and forced her to kneel on the ground. Her knees screamed as the collided harshly with the rigid floor but her face betrayed nothing.

"Now I want all of you to DO AS I SAY-" the dark haired man pivoted to face the frightened mass, all of them looking on with wide eyes. The man swung his arm behind him, aiming the gun directly at her forehead. "-OR SHE DIES."

From her current position, she could just about reach her gun. She stretched her fingers to loosen the 9mm from its secure resting place, making it easier to grab at a moment's notice.

"I want phones, wallets, jewelry, EVERYTHING," the man continued, "Slide it all up here. You-" the gun motioned towards a woman in a cashier's uniform momentarily before resuming its position behind the thief's back, "Open every goddamn register in the place and bring me all the cash. And if you don't give us all of it, I'll blow your pretty little head off too."

The woman swallowed hard and shakily stood up.

_Dammit, where was he?_ Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a glimpse of blue slowly creeping up behind the busy criminals. He lifted his gun, the leader in his crosshairs. Then a woman in the crowd gasped. There went their element of surprise.

She ducked immediately, catching the two men by surprise into releasing her. She spun her body forcefully and kicked the legs out from under the men. The leader twisted fiercely at the sound of bodies hitting the floor, tilting the gun down and pulling the trigger. The bullet landed just to the left of her head, impaling a white tile. She instantly ducked and rolled. Jerking the gun from behind her, she exchanged careful fire with the before darting down one of the isles.

At the sound of a cracking gun, he retreated back out of sight. "What the fuck, Nat!" he exclaimed, quietly but crossly, when he found her running towards him. Together, they raced down two aisles and sprinted into the produce section

"Your element of-"

Shots rang out behind them. She quickly rolled behind a pyramid of cantaloupe and he ducked behind a display of oranges.

"-surprise was gone."

"So? I had him!" he shouted, peeking out to fire two rounds at their attackers.

"What did this guy do-" she rushed out from her cover in favor of a more solid stricture, firing three rounds from behind a support pole, "-to you to make you so bitchy."

"Is trying to have me killed a sufficient answer?" he asked jokingly, but his expression was hard.

After a handful of additional shots were exchanged, both sides had ceased firing, waiting for the other to make their move.

She peered out from behind the pole after a minute of silence, only to have a bullet whiz by her head and pierce a stack of watermelons, sending fragments and juice in every direction. She pulled back before darting out a second later, firing a single shot as she dove for cover behind another display.

"Bull's-eye," he exclaimed, giving her a solemn nod of approval. She glimpsed around the edge of the display to find the man lying dead, in a growing pool of his own blood, a bullet hole just above his eye.

She wasn't guilty. She wasn't regretful. She wasn't sorry. Her head was composed and her body calm. This was survival. This is what she thrived at.

"One down, two to go," she breathed. They were running low on bullets. By her count, she had used up nine and him eleven. "Where's the ring leader?"

"Out front with the people, making sure none of them escape," He sneered, popping the clip to check his remaining bullets. Then he turned to her and smirked. "All of this for some pancakes?"

"If I were you, I'd take it as a complement," she retorted.

A shot barreled past him and he snapped the clip back into the gun, returned fire, and hitting the man in the dead center of a chest. His weapon of choice was the bow and arrow, but his marksman skills carried over well to more modern weapons.

"Kill shot," she confirmed.

"Good, now let's go find that sonofabitch," he exclaimed.

They stood up carefully, watching every direction as they approached the front of the store where the crowd of captives was still gathered. He went out first, gun extended, with her at his six.

"Where's that bastard," he mumbled.

Suddenly, a shot rang out from the end of an aisle and the duo whipped around, returning fire as the man fled. The masses screamed at every gunshot, dropping their heads.

"Go, I've got your back!" he called to her.

She nodded sharply and took off down the same aisle the shots were fired from. He dashed into an adjacent aisle, picking up the rear. When she came out of the end, she saw a flash of black sprinting down to the dairy section. She raced after the leader, hearing familiar footfalls close behind her.

Breathing heavily, her feet pounded the tile beneath her. It was exhilarating. She made it to the mouth of the aisle, gun at the ready.

But it caught her by surprise. She felt the bullet skewer her side before she heard the shot reverberate. Then another skimmed her neck. Down she went, collapsing onto her knees, gripping where the bullet lodged itself. Someone screamed. But it wasn't her.

He was suddenly standing over her as the ring leader endeavored to make his escape down the aisle. She peered up at him, her eyes burning with unwanted tears. His face was hard as stone but his eyes were blazing. His mouth twitched with rage and he turned the gun onto the man, stepping forward as he fired two shots.

The man buckled, unable to run thanks to the bullets wedged into both legs. He approached the dark haired man and pressed his boot down onto the man's chest roughly.

"Hey Brent," he snarled, "say hi to my dad for me." His lips turned up scornfully as he pulled the trigger and embedding a bullet in the man's brain.

He towered over the man, grimacing. Then he suddenly remembered her, leaning over herself, blood spilling onto the ground. He sprinting down the aisle.

She had watched the confrontation, eyes wide from pain and shock. Her bright blue eyes gaped down at her hands, covered and glowing in blood. Her own blood. It was still leaking from her body like a fully flowing faucet. Her head was feeling heavier by the second, and her body was growing weak.

"Natahsa!" he cried, "Nat, look at me!"

He grabbed her shoulder, pulling her gaze up from her red hands. His face was blurry to her. It wasn't from the tears, though. Then black dots sprouted throughout her vision. They kept growing until they almost completely shrouding her in darkness. She felt her body slump to the ground and then everything went black.

* * *

**So we had a jealous Natasha, cute Clint interacting with children, and a shootout in the supermarket. ****Let me know what you thought!**

**The next chapter might take a little longer to update because I've got a _shitload_ of work coming up but I'll be writing whenever I have the time! Possible flashbacks coming up, giving a little more insight into the past of these two. **

**Stay tuned, folks! **


	6. There Will Be Blood

**Hey guys! Sorry for leaving you on a cliffhanger like that! Originally, I was going to upload another long chapter but it's taking a lot longer to write than I thought it would and I didn't want to keep you all waiting.**

**This chapter and the next few are going to contain flashbacks, so enjoy!**

**I don't own Marvel, etc, etc.**

**Authors note: possible trigger warning for sexual assault and there is _slight _graphic violence. Just wanted to give everyone a heads up.**

* * *

It was like she was going through a tunnel; an endless, mind numbing tunnel. Voices and sounds blended into nothingness, murmuring, mumbling, incoherent. Everything was blurred and fuzzy. Except the pain. The pain was sharp. Piercing. Something rocked her, intensifying the pain to an agonizing new height. She whimpered unconsciously, biting back the scream that was building up in her throat.

A hand pressed down on her shoulder. "Nat, stay with me."

She realized that he was with her, his words breaking into the drifting sea of disorientation. Good. But what happ- oh. She had been shot. Twice. The second one wasn't causing her an immense amount of pain, though. That was just a graze. It wouldn't be her first. But her side ached and stung and burned and just hurt.

"Clint," she murmured languidly before her head slumped down against the car window and lost consciousness again.

* * *

_The sun baked the town below, sizzling its inhabitants. Natasha was down to her black bikini top and cutoffs. She walked down the street barefoot, unbothered by the burning asphalt._

_She was on her way to Clint's; the lucky bastard had a pool. Or, rather, his neighbors did. The Coulson's were out though, so she was sure they wouldn't mind._

_Her shortcut through the woods was a godsend; the vibrant green leaves provided excellent shade from the harsh glaring sun. Only three more blocks to go._

_But as soon as she exited the tree line, Natasha sensed a presence behind her. Not wanting to draw attention, she detoured from her normal route, taking a sharp right down a random street. Then she swerved a right down the next. The man continued to trail her._

_Natasha stopped in her tracks and the man behind her slowed. He was tall, blonde, and wore mirrored sunglasses. She glared. His lips threatened a devious smile._

_That set her teeth on edge. She approached the man, the complete opposite of what she knew she was supposed to do in such a situation._

_"Can I help you with something?" she spat._

_They were alone on an untraveled street. Nothing but an abandoned bakery and an old, rundown condo building remained._

_The stranger took three large steps to close the distance between them. "How kind of you to ask," he hissed. He seized Natasha's arm and gripped it with near bone crushing force. She was tall for her age, meeting him at eye level as the stranger pulled her into him and grinned, sliding his hand past the hem of her jeans._

_"Big mistake," she snarled. Natasha clutched the man's arm trying to snake its way into her and twisted herself behind it. With a heave of her body, she effortlessly flipped the man onto the ground. He released her arm and landed with a hard thud. She estimated at least two ribs were broken._

_With the heel of her foot, Natasha stomped down on the man's wrist, listening as the bone shattered and the man screamed. She grinned victoriously. He tried to sit up but Natasha landed a solid right hook just below his temple, sending him right back to the ground._

_"I hoped you learned your lesson," she smirked, crouching down beside the man, "because while I would love to continue to beat the shit out of you, I've got places to be."_

_He groaned in defeat and she straightened herself out. Natasha cocked her head to the side for a second, glaring down at the man who had tried to force himself on her. Then she made up her mind. She bent down, grabbed a fistful of the man's hair, and smashed his head against the concrete. Blood seeped out onto the sidewalk and collected in a pool around him._

_She left the stranger there. Maybe someone would come across him, maybe not. But that didn't matter. He wouldn't be able to hurt anyone anymore._

_Natasha arrived at Clint's ten minutes later._

_"Nat," he called from the poolside, "what took you so long?"_

_"I ran into someone," she mentioned nonchalantly._

_They didn't have secrets. But it wasn't a lie- it just wasn't the whole truth. Clint noticed a patch of purple beginning to color darkly on her right forearm._

_"Who exactly did you run into?" he asked suspiciously._

_"You wouldn't know him."_

_Natasha shimmied out of her shorts and dove gracefully into the pool, coming up to splash water at her old friend. Not to be outdone, Clint rose from the edge of the pool and dove just as smoothly as she did into the crisp, refreshing water. He smirked as he came up for a breath._

_Her fourteenth birthday was tomorrow, and he had something special planned for her. A new shooting range had just opened up a couple of miles away and he heard they had a pretty fucking awesome obstacle course._

* * *

The storm had concluded just as suddenly as it had begun. They were in the parking lot- her drifting in and out of consciousness while he carried her and contended against the pound rain- when it just stopped, without warning or notice. He was thankful it did; the drive was going to be difficult enough without battling the elements too.

"Dammit Nat, stay with me!"

He was desperate now as they pulled into his driveway- their driveway; it was her home now too. The car had barely come to a stop when he forced the door open and swung around to the other side, carefully but urgently lifting her almost limp body out of the car and into the house.

Not even bothering to close the front door behind him, he went directly to the couch in the living room where she had slept only the night before. He quickly ripped her bloodied shirt out of the way, examining her midsection. The bullet had gone through and thorough, a clean shot. A few centimeters to the left and the bullet would have completely missed her. But a few centimeters to the right...

He left her momentarily, rummaging in a closet, hastily pulling down bins and tossing them aside when he didn't find when he needed. The floor was littered with objects and containers before his hands fell upon a small box.

He darted back to her and kneeled beside the couch.

"Nat ," he whispered into her ear, "if you can hear me, just know you're going to feel a small pinch. I've got to sew you up, okay?"

She nodded weakly, and he released a slight sigh of relief. He pulled a lighter out of his pocket, one he kept right alongside his favorite knife, and flicked a flame to life. Once the needle was sterile, he pulled the thread through and went to work.

This want the first patch job he's done, and it certainly wasn't the worst wound he's seen. She had lost blood though, and from the color of her skin, quite a bit. But he just couldn't risk a hospital visit, not with her blood smeared across the market. And if checked her into the system, they would be done for. The cops would be on their tails as soon her head hit the scratchy hospital pillow. They had killed three men. It doesn't matter that they were trying to save civilians or if the men were known killers and thieves, all the cops would see are two gun wielding teens in the middle of a turf war; shoot first, clear everything up later.

No, she was safer here. She would have done the same for him.

When he finished the closing the exit would on her back, he began on the entrance wound. The bleeding had thankfully stopped before he started stitching her but maybe that was because she was tapped out, her body flushed of all blood that had previously run wildly through her veins. He shook that thought out of his head forcefully. This wasn't a fatal wound, she'd pull through.

The needle finished its last pass through her skin and he clipped the thread. That should hold her together. She was still so pale. He brushed the curls crowding her face off to the side, gently rubbing his thumb against her cheek.

Every now and then, she would murmur something. Sometimes it was Russian, and occasionally it was the odd curse in English. But most of the time, it was his name. He smiled softly when she called for him again, unknowing that he was just inches away, always there for her. Then, for the first time, he peered down at her neck. A fresh anger boiled inside of him, almost as deep and cutting as the rage he felt less than an hour ago in the market. The graze to her neck was severe and dark, and thick scab was beginning to encase the wound.

He jumped to his feet, suddenly extremely antsy, pacing the floor in front of the couch. The 'what ifs' were driving him insane. Just a centimeter to the right, if she had dodged the wrong way or had taken an extra step, she would be dead, lying on the cold tile of the dairy section in a pool of her own blood. Just like the man who shot her.

* * *

**Let me know what you think! I love hearing from you guys.**

******Next up are some Clint flashbacks and a little brotherly dispute.**

**Again, it might take a little longer to upload the next chapters than I would like but once I crank it out I'll run here as soon as I can. ****_Bloody finals_. They just get in the way of my writing. .**


	7. The Circus Came to Town

**Hello readers! I was able to write this chapter much quicker than I expected so you lucky people get an update! **

**I just want to take the time here to express my graditude again for all of the reviews and favorites and alerts. You guys rock! **_  
_

**More flashbacks in this chapter. I really like writing these. Possibly more to come in the next chapter too. **

**I don't own Marvel, etc, etc.**

* * *

_The rain began to pound the asphalt as Clint shuffled down the unlit road in the dead of night. Hood up and jacket zipped, he stuffed his hands in his pocket and kept moving. _

_It's been three days since he ran away. His parents were dead- a mugging gone wrong. Or maybe it had gone right. He didn't know. But Barney had taken their death hard. Night after night, he would empty a bottle of cheap vodka and pass out on the couch, but not before tearing up the house in a drunken rampage. Clint couldn't stand it anymore. He packed up his bow, a sheath of arrows, and a couple of changes of clothes and left. It was all he had._

_Clint hiked on in the downpour, searching for a place to take shelter. That's when he heard a scream of a woman. Then he heard it again. It was coming from an alleyway one block over. Clint sprinted to the opening and investigated the situation. A woman stood, pined at the end of the alley to the rough brick wall by a man twice her size. One hand clasped around her throat and the other her waist, the man chuckled darkly and mumbled something incoherently. From the faint glow of light from a nearby building, Clint saw the glow of the woman's fiery curls. _

_He scaled the fire escape at the mouth of the alley and perched on the platform of the third story. __From his bag, Clint snatched his bow and a single arrow. He gripped the bow and flicked it effortlessly to life, like a flower blooming with the rising sun. A smile twitched on his lips._

_His line of sight was perfect and clear, even in the pouring rain. He extended the bow and slid the notch of the arrow onto the string. Pulling his arm back, he waited and watched the situation for a moment longer. When the man moved for his pocket, Clint loosed the arrow. Less than a second later, the man was on the ground, his body limp. _

_The woman muffled a scream, staring wide eyed at her attacker, an arrow jutting from his neck. She stood there for a minute, ten different types of shock rolling over her, before collecting herself and sprinting away, her eyes never leaving the arrow. _

_Clint relaxed his bow, folded the ends of the weapon onto itself, and placed it back in his bag. He slung the bag on to his back and slid down the fire escape ladder. _

_He approached the body and reached for his arrow, but then something caught his eye. A piece of paper laid covering on the man's face. He could just make out the words in the darkness._

_Nice shot. We'll be in touch –B_

_Clint scanned the alley, but he was alone. He pocketed the note and jerked the arrow from the man's neck. As he turned to leave his boot stepped on something. A knife. So thats when the man was reaching for. It could be useful, his bow wasn't made for hand-to-hand combat- something that was bound to happen on these streets. He knelt down and picked up the blade. Before he straightened himself out, Clint decided to rummage around the man's pockets and found a wallet. He'd be sleeping well tonight, he smirked._

_The faint screech of sirens approached. Clint deposited the new items into his bag and flicked his hood back on his head. He took off running as the rain lightened, a slight smile growing on his face._

* * *

"Nat, you have to rest," he commanded.

She had woken up after four hours in a near comatose-like sleep, restless and somewhat loopy from the pain medications he had forced her to swallow. At the moment, he was pining her chest down with his hand. She was weakened so it didn't take much effort, but she was persistent for someone who had just been shot.

"Barney is going to be home any minute," she growled as she struggled against him, wincing when she accidentally nudged her abdomen.

"I'll handle my brother," he told her confidently.

She huffed and frowned, succumbing to his orders to rest. He handed her a glass of water and she snatched. At her displeased expression, he chuckled and sank down into the chair beside the couch.

"How's your head," he inquired.

"Fine," she muttered into the glass.

He rolled his eyes. Of course. Did he really expect a different answer?

"You owe me a new jacket," he smirked.

She glanced down at the tattered hoodie she was still in, the soft grey replaced with deep burgundy along the entire right half.

"You owe me an explanation," she quipped back, tilting the water glass towards him.

One of his eyebrows raised. "An explanation?"

"Yeah, what you said before you shot him- Brent. What did he have to do with your parents deaths?"

She watched as his entire body tensed. There weren't many topics she danced around with him, but his parents were definitely one of them. So it didn't make sense to her why she so suddenly brought it up. She almost felt guilty, but it was too late to take it back.

"It's pretty simple," he said seriously after a long, silent minute, crossing his arms over his chest,"They were mugged, he was the mugger. They put up a fight, he put them in the ground. End of story."

Her eyes widened. "What?" she whispered. He had never told her this. "When did you find out?"

"Six months ago."

"Why didn't you tell me?" she whispered. Hurt washed over her, dwarfing the pain in her side.

"Because I knew how you would react," he smirked.

She glared at him and shook her head. "I can't believe you would-"

"Would what, Natasha? Keep information about someone who killed my parents from you? Of course I would! To prevent something like this!" he pointed to her abdomen. "If I told you, you would have bolted right out that door and hunted him down. You did the same thing to me with your father."

Her jaw locked and she averted her gaze from his bright blue eyes.

He shook his head slowly. "I'm right and you know it."

She chugged the water and slammed the empty glass down on the coffee table with nearly enough force to shatter it. Tension radiated off they both of them and they sat in a forced silence until she slowly lost consciousness again.

* * *

"_The Circus Gang?" Natasha asked skeptically one afternoon. They were in her backyard, lounging in the grass as the fall breeze blew the brightly colored autumn leaves from their branches and onto the ground below, tumbling like a gymnast in their descent to earth. _

_She remembered how her parents wanted her to be a gymnast when she was younger. Either that or a ballerina. All good little Russian girls did one or the other. Natasha had chosen both. It was a grueling schedule, often jumping from one practice to another but she excelled remarkably at each. By the age of twelve, she was a prodigy and by age 16, a master. _

_"That's what they call themselves," Clint confirmed. _

_"You joined the Circus?" she scoffed. Natasha yawned, flipping into her stomach to lock eyes with him. "You're better off staying a consultant. Don't get tied down." _

_He chuckled. "If it means a reliable source of income then they could bind me in chains for all I care."_

_She rolled her eyes. "That's basically what's happening here, Clint. Don't you see? By committing yourself to a group, you're never going to be able to leave."_

_"I can walk out of there whenever I want."_

_"Don't be so naive," she scolded, "You're signing your life away."_

_Clint sat up, running his hand through his hair. She rolled onto her back again and watched him carefully._

_"I never wanted to be this, you know," he confided, "I didn't want to turn I to some fucking hitman."_

_Natasha reached her arm up and rested it on his shoulder. She never shared his guilt or his apprehension; she did what she needed to do and left her conscience out of it. But Clint was different. He did what he needed to but there was always the odd job that stayed with him long after it had ended. Maybe it was because of the way they looked right before he loosed the arrow or because they reminded him of someone he loved. Either way, he didn't share her indifference when it came to how they made their living. _

_Clint peered sadly down at her hand then at her. Natasha gently pulled him down so he rested beside her again. They sat silently together as the wind continued to whistle and wave the trees high above their heads._

* * *

The sun dipped below the horizon and darkness had settled over them. He had dozed off soon after she had, exauhstion setting in after the stressfilled hours that had hijacked their morning. An engine roaring into the driveway jostled him awake and he opened his eyes just in time to see his brother burst through the door.

At first his brother didn't notice her, snoring softly on the couch, hands curled around her waist. His brother walked past them and into the kitchen, grabbed a beer, and reentered the living too. Then his eyes widened in rage.

"What the fuck is _she_ doing here," his brother spat, his nose crinkled and his mouth twitching.

"She had an accident," he said coldly, straightening himself up in his chair.

His brother shook his head fiercely. "Not in my fucking house. You take her to a goddamn hospital. I want her out!"

When his brother took one step too close to her, he shot up, hand on his brother jugular, and rammed him with a shaking thud into the wall. The bottle of beer smashed against the wall in the scuffle, spilling its contents onto the carpeted floor. He could tell by the stench radiating off his brothers body that it hadn't been his first of the night.

"If you touch her," he hissed menacingly to his brother, who was struggling against his grip, "I will kill you."

His brother growled and threw a wide left hook.

He caught the blunt of the punch on the edge of his jaw and staggered back a step, loosening his choking grip on his brother. His brother took this as an opportunity to break from the hold and swing again. But was blocked this time by a quick elbow. Another swing. Blocked again. Another and another and another. All were blocked effortlessly.

Then his brother hesitated, exhausted from the sudden exertion of energy. Just what he was waiting for. He delivered a devastating blow to his older brother's stomach.

"You always fought dirty," his brother grunted, spitting splatters of blood onto the ground in front of him.

He snarled and slammed his brother's head back against the wall, this time at knife point. "You don't touch her, understood?" His brother just stared darkly at him.

He momentarily tightened his grip on his brother's neck before releasing him, letting him slump onto the floor. From the couch, she mumbled his name softly in her sleep and he turned towards the sound. That's when his brother pounced like a cat stalking its prey. The pair tumbled onto the coffee table, shattering it into shards of wood.

"And you said I fought dirty," he breathed, rising to his feet and pulling a wood fragment from his arm. His brother only smirked and leapt for him again. He grabbed his brother midair and redirected him into a bookshelf, landing with a shuddering crash and falling to the ground. Books toppled down on top of his brother as he stumbled to his feet.

"All this for that little _whore_?" his brother spat, wiping the blood leaking from his nose. His jaw set as he closed the short distance between him and his older brother, grabbing him by the shirt in two fistfuls and hurling him onto the ground.

"You like her, don't you," his brother slurred a taunt as he squirmed on his back, his conniving smile tinged red with blood, "Your little friend from when you were seven. Tell me, Clinty, when did you fall for her, eh?" His brother laughed triumphantly and spit a new mouthful of blood to his side.

He'd had enough; enough of his brother, enough of his drunken slurs. Without speaking, he hauled his brother to his feet by his collar and shoved him forcefully into the hallway. His brother rolled until he collided with the staircase.

"Ah," his brother smiled darkly past the pain, "Now I know why Brent always wanted you. Too bad you two fell out; we could've made some more money."

His face was expressionless as he approached his brother.

"Brent is dead."

* * *

_"Clint my man!"_

_He looked towards the voice coming from his chair at his kitchen table. It was late: nearly midnight when Clint wandered into the house. He and Natasha had spent the past four hours at the shooting range, tirelessly ramming bullets and arrows into various targets, and then another hour grabbing a quick bite to eat at her favorite Thai restaurant. _

_"Brent," Clint nodded in acknowledgement. _

_The dark haired man stood up and clasped Clint on the shoulder. "Boy, have I got a job for you."_

_Clint's eyebrow rose as he looked to his brother, sitting opposite of where Brent had just been. Barney inclined his head, encouraging him to listen to the proposal. _

_"There's a... situation," Brent smirked, "down at Marty's. We need you to... take care of some people, if you catch my drift."_

_He stared at the hand resting on his shoulder and then at the man it belonged to. "Why."_

_"Why what?"_

_"Why?" Clint repeated. "Why Marty's? Why me?" The Circus had three other snipers but he always seemed to be first on their list if there was a 'situation' that needed to be taken care of. _

_"Clean up," Brent's lip turned up, "They're liabilities. And you? Of course you! You're the best shot we've got!"_

_"An arrow to the head is pretty conspicuous in the middle of a packed bar, don't you think?" he grimaced, walking away from the man and the table, rummaging through the refrigerator and grabbing a beer. _

_"The cops won't hear nothin', trust me," the man grinned deviously. _

_"Targets?"_

_"Three."_

_"How much?"_

_"Six big ones."_

_"I need at least seven or no deal," Clint finalized, twisting the cap off the bottle and taking a substantial swig. _

_"Done," the man nodded, looking over to Barney. _

_Clint hated when he did that. Barney wasn't his 'handler'; there was no need to include him in any of their transactions. His older brother was nothing more than a drunk who used Clint to make a quick buck. He sighed and turned to Brent._

_"When?" _

_"Tonight."_

_Clint nearly choked on his current mouthful of alcohol. "Now?"_

_"It would be greatly appreciated," Brent smiled his toothy, doll like smile. It was creepy. _

_"Now you're talking eight."_

_"Seven and a half if you leave now," Brent's smile dissipated and Clint knew better than to argue. The dark haired man plucked a paper from his pocked and handed it over to him. "Get to it, boy."_

_He nodded and left the room, snatching his keys off the table. Orders were orders._

* * *

**Let me know what you guys thought! **

**The next chapter might take a little longer to upload because finals suck **

**Stay tuned!**


	8. Leather Jackets and Stitches

**Finals are killing me, guys. But only one more week and then I'm free to write ALL THE TIME because summer is a beautiful thing.**

**This chapter is shorter than I would have liked but I felt you guys deserved _something_ so here you go!**

**I don't own Marvel, etc**

* * *

She awoke with the sun almost exactly like the morning before. Almost.

There was a moment of blissful peace when her eyes cracked open and her thoughts and memories were distorted and blurred, unaware of the events that had occurred only of eighteen hours prior. But as the protective cover of sleep lifted off of her, the pain came rushing back like a tidal wave. She drew a gasped breath when in an attempt to readjust her aching back she had disturbed the wound. It stung and pinched and stabbed every nerve in the vicinity of the bullet hole, lighting up the pain center in her brain like a Christmas tree.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she quickly reached beside her to the coffee table to for the bottle of painkiller he had left for her. But her hand only grasped air. She turned her head and glanced down. The table was completely obliterated with splinters of wood strewn across the carpeted floor. Behind her, he was fast asleep in the chair, dried blood staining his face and shirt.

Her eyes traveled around the room. Books were littered across the floor, the transparent brown glass shards of a broken beer bottle was scattered beside the wall, and blood was splattered throughout the room. Then her eyes met the slumped, bruised figure of his brother laying in front of the staircase.

"What the fuck..." she whispered to herself.

All other thoughts subsided when she spotted the bottle of painkillers. It was halfway across the room, alongside the window. Soft dawn light penetrated the thin tan curtain and illuminated the plastic, causing it to flicker dimly.

"Clint," she nudged his knee but he didn't wake or stir.

She sighed deeply and slowly lifted herself into a sitting position. Her abdomen screamed but she bit back even a tiny whimper. Using the couch for support, she shakily made it to her feet. Still using the support, she took a wobbly step and ignored the agonizing cries of her body. She took another step, and then another. But when she released the couch and attempted to walk in her own, she staggered and collapsed onto her hands and knees.

Russian curses growled past her lips as she choked back a scream. No, she was not going to give her pain the satisfaction.

* * *

_The bullet barreled towards her, flying at an alarming rate towards her head. A quick duck and roll maneuver to behind a red and white upholstered booth and the bullet logged itself into the wall. Natasha slid the clip out of her gun and replaced it with a fresh cartridge she had hidden away in her leather jacket. _

_This job was supposed to be simple; in and out. But she was off her game today; she was sloppy. When Natasha entered the restaurant, an elderly woman caught sight of her gun all-too-noticeably visible when her jacket caught on a chair. Regrettably, the woman called attention to it. Then all hell broke loose. Her target, a rival of the gang that hired her, immediately opened fire on her. Many casualties were taken, including the woman that started the mess. _

_This job was supposed to be routine; five minutes tops. She'd walk in, draw the attention of the target with a wink or a smile, lead them outside away from civilians, and take care of them silently. Now they were in the middle of a diner with the cops on the way and three people dead who were not on her list. _

_Natasha jumped to her feet and fired off three rounds into the hiding spot of her target. It was her first job in weeks. She suddenly found herself wishing Clint was beside her, loosing arrows and making snarky remarks. It had been weeks since she last saw him, too. Ever since the Circus recruited him, he always seemed to have somewhere to be, someone to kill. _

_Two shots ricocheted off the booth and embedded themselves into the furniture. The restaurant was cleared except for the bodies of the targets posse and the unlucky patrons caught in the crossfire; her target was the only one left standing of his men. _

_This standoff had lasted over a minute and was going nowhere fast. Time was running out. Natasha stood up and fired multiple consecutive shots into a table flipped onto its side. A cry of pain radiated from behind the insufficient cover and she smirked. _

_After precious silent seconds past, she cautiously sauntered over to the man. Gun extended, she slowly peered around the table. His breathing was staggered and blood was pooling out of his chest. What she hadn't noticed, however, was that he concealed his weapon under his jacket. He fired two shot before the gun clicked and only fired blanks. His aim was off; the first bullet completely missed Natasha, flying somewhere into the kitchen. But the second bullet dug deep into her shoulder. _

_Her hand grasped the bleeding bullet hole and she cried out. Eyebrows burrowed in pain and a new boiling rage, Natasha slammed the heel of her boot onto his wound. He shrieked, his body flailing and his eyes rolling back into his head form the white hot searing pain. _

_"This jacket was a birthday present, you ass," she growled fiercely and pressed her foot down with more force. _

_The man continued to struggle. Then he just stopped; stopped screaming, stopped moving, stopped breathing. _

_Natasha let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding and removed her foot from the mans body. Sirens were approaching, three blocks away at the most. Hand cupping her shoulder, she bolted through the dining room, into the kitchen, and out the back door._

_When she was a safe distance from the diner, her pace slowed into an easy jog. Twenty minutes later, she found herself on Clint's door step, assaulting the door with her fist. The door swung open. Barney greeted her with a disapproving once-over. He rolled his eyes and silently walked away. _

_"It's for you, Hawk," Barney called to his brother in a nagging tone, unscrewing the lid of the beer he had clutched in his hand and retreating upstairs._

_Clint nudged himself off the couch and rolled into the foyer. Natasha stood in the doorway, hair disheveled, clothes wrinkled, a red glowing hand clutching her shoulder._

_"Rough day?" he inquired and to his surprise she barked a laugh. _

_"You should see the other guys."_

_He chuckled and led her into the living room. "Come on, I'll fix you up. Wait a minute," he paused, twisting around to glare at her, "is that my jacket?"_

* * *

He woke up to find her curled up against the widow, eyes closed, one hand clasping her side and the other entwined around a bottle of pills.

"Dammit, Nat!" He growled, flipping himself out of the chair and onto the ground next to her. "Natasha, wake up."

She felt the hands on her cheeks and her eyes flickered open, wincing from the awkward position her body slumped into. Fresh blood stained her shirt and he sighed, standing up over her.

"You tore your stitches."

"Well then, fix me up Doc," she demanded lightly, grabbing his extended arm and carefully hoisting herself off the uncomfortable ground. "What time is it?"

"About nine," he answered, peering at a hanging clock on the wall.

Damn, she'd been out for at least an hour. She sighed as he helped her back onto the couch.

"Why didn't you just wake me up," he called, fishing the needle and thread out of the bin from the closet.

"I tried," she admitted. He sauntered back into the room and kneeled beside her, pushing chunks of wood from under his legs. She nodded towards the hallway, "I take it you won."

He glanced over his shoulder, his brothers body still propped up against the stairwell. His brothers chest rose shallowly with each staggered breath. Then he turned back to her and smirked, lifting her bloodied tank top out of the way. "Wasn't much a fight. I can't believe you slept through it, though."

"Yeah, well-" she winced as the needle pierced her skin "-somebody drugged me. You look terrible by the way."

Dried blood caked his forehead and streaked down the left side of his face, his chin was bruised, his arms were scratched up, and his shirt was torn near the collar. He chuckled, not lifting his eyes off the sutures he was weaving.

"I've had worse."

"I know," she smiled softly. Then her expression darkened, "Is Barney going to be an issue?"

His mouth fell into a hard line, "I think he got the message."

* * *

**And there we go. I'm hoping to wrap this story up in another few chapters or so because I want to start focusing my attention on another story in the works . More flashbacks to come.**

**The problem with writing a long story is continuity. S_igh. _I hope I'm sticking to the previously established story line but it gets harder as I go along.**

**If all goes to plan, the next chapter should be up in a few days. Stay tuned and tell me what you think!  
**


	9. Something New

**Hey guys! I'm so sorry for the wait! I could write uou a paragraph about why I've been away for so long but I bet you just want to get to this long overdue chapter! **

**I threw in something special so I hope it makes up for the wait! **

**I don't own Marvel, etc. **

* * *

He tossed her a shirt as he rumbled down the stairwell so she could thankfully change out of the blood soaked tank top she'd been stuck in for the past twenty-four hours. As she threw on the black band-tee, he sauntered into the kitchen to conjure up some breakfast.

After a few minutes, he heard grumbling and footsteps closing in on the kitchen. Thinking it was his brother, he tensed, ignoring the anguished cries of his knuckles when he tighten his grasp around the knife that lay in his hand. He remained as he was, facing away from the entry and pretending to focus on the meal in front of him. But when a soft, almost inaudible whimper came from the archway, he spun around to see her nearly collapsed against the wall.

"Nat," he half scolded, half panicked as he rushed to her. He slid his arm to her good side to support almost all of her weight.

She glanced up apologetically at him. "Sorry, I got tired of waiting. Besides, it smells really good, whatever you're making."

He let out a low chuckle as he repositioned her weight more comfortably in his arms. "At least Barney had the decency to pick up a few things yesterday before I had to beat the shit out of him."

"Good 'ole Barney," she chuckled and he laughed with her.

As their laughter died down, their eyes met, and they both became very aware of the lack of distance they had created from their embrace.

He smirked lightly as he tightened his grip, fingers clamped firmly around the uninjured portions of her waist, and pulled her into him. Her hands, clutching at his shoulders for support, unconsciously inched closer to his neck until her fingers intwined behind his head.

At her touch, the hairs on the back of his neck raised and he pressed her body closer to his until their mouths but mere centimeters from each others. His head was tilted down to hers; he could feel her warm breath rising up against his lips. With a smirk to rival his, she pressed up on her toes and smashed her lips to his. She could feel a grin forming on his lips and she smiled too.

In an instant, her back was against the wall, their mouths still urgently fighting each others for dominance. A hand from her waist slid up her body to her neck while the other remained to keep her propped against him. She ran her fingers through his hair and used the leverage to keep him anchored to her.

Their lips continued to battle when, suddenly, a shrill beeping of an alarm began to radiate from over the oven, snapping the both of them back to the moment.

"Shit," he cursed under his breath as he sat her down at the table before rushing to pull a now blackened omelette off the back burner.

A small smile teased at her lips as she watched him frustratedly tossed the smoking mess into the sink and doused it in water. He fished for a new pan in a cupboard below the counter and started on his second round of omelette making.

"Natasha, what are you doing?" he asked her when she appeared beside him at the stove, the memory of what happen still very fresh in his mind.

"Helping you cook," she replied nonchalantly, "Now pass me the cheddar."

"_You_ should be resting," he nagged, reaching to his right for the brick of cheese she requested.

"And _you_ sound like a broken record," she teased.

"I wouldn't have to keep repeating myself if you just listened," he retorted with a smirk.

"Oh please. I've had worse. Remember the Wiltings job?"

He nodded gravely in recollection. "Yeah, I remember all right. You looked like you got malled by Edward Scissorhands."

"Exactly," she nodded, letting her hand run along the now faded scar along her side that stretched from shoulder to hip like a zipper. She had miscalculated her then-target's fighting abilities. But her target wasn't alive long enough afterwords to bask in the achievement. "I'm fine."

"If you say so."

Once the eggs were cooked just perfectly, they divided the meal onto their plates and settled down at the table.

"So," she started while she shoveled a forkful of cheesy omelette into her mouth, "what happen with Barney?"

He shrugged. "He came in and tried to kick you out. We ended up having a little disagreement."

She snorted as she chewed on another mouthful. "I can't believe he's still pissed about December. That was six months ago."

"He needed surgery to correct the damage you did to his nose," he reminded her with a smirk.

"It's nothing he didn't deserve," she mused, stabbing her fork at her plate.

He chuckled into his glass of orange juice, signaling his agreement. "Can't argue with you there."

* * *

_Natasha fumbled with the volume of her iPod, lowering the music that had cheerfully bombarded her ears on her routine jog to Clint's home. After she quieted BYOB, she pocketed her iPod and rapped her knuckles against the door twice. Then she waited. And waited. And waited._

_She let out a frustrated sigh and knocked again but to no avail. With another sigh, she pulled two bobby pins from her hair and went to work on the lock. In seconds, the defining click of the lock signaled her success and she pushed the door open. _

_"Clint?" she called, pulling the earbuds out of her ears. _

_Angry shouting roared from the second level and she wearily made her way towards the commotion. Natasha followed the noise to the bathroom Clint and Barney shared located between the brothers' rooms. The door was slightly ajar but she remained firmly on the other side and listened in on the yelling match. _

_"What the FUCK were you thinking!" she heard Barney berate. _

_"I was THINKING that I couldn't fucking be in there anymore," Clint retorted, "They lied to me for months, YEARS!" _

_"Oh get the fuck over it!" _

_"I'm through with being fucking Brent's hired gun!"_

_"What, you'd suddenly go all soft, Clint-y pie?" Barney sneered and she heard Clint scoff in return. "You're a natural born killer, little brother, so don't pull that shit with me."_

_"I'm done, Barney," Clint shouted back, "I'm out of the Circus. And frankly, I don't give a shit what you think so you can-"_

_He was cut off by the sound of a crack followed closely by a loud thump. After seconds of silence, Natasha grew worried and pushed the door open. What she saw made her blood boil. _

_Clint was slumped over the bathtub, blinking hard and rubbing he cheek. Blood was dripping from just below his hairline where he undoubtedly hit his head on the porcelain tub. _

_Barney was standing over him, fist clenched and eyes wide and burning. He jumped as Natasha entered the room but wasn't prepared for her fist that came barreling towards his nose. He stumbled backwards as her hand connected and he fell against the metal towel rack. _

_"What the fuck!" Barney exclaimed as he his hand rushed to the blood leaking from his nose. _

_Natasha ignored him and knelt down beside Clint, who to her, seemed a little out of it. _

_"Tasha...?" he groaned as he squinted his eyes, trying to figure out which of the three Natasha's he saw was the real one. _

_"Clint you have a concussion," she assessed softly as she brushed her fingers across the gash on his forehead. _

_He nodded and squeezed his eyes shut. "Yep, sounds about right."_

_Natasha held back a snort as she helped her oldest friend off the white tile floor. "Come on, at least lie down in your bed." _

_She wrapped her arm around his side and had him lean his weight on her as she lead him out of the bathroom. _

_"Hey bitch," Barney called from behind her, staggering back to his feet, "where the fuck do you think you're going!"_

_She turned around in the hallway, which was difficult considering she had a half-unconscious Clint on her shoulders. "You wanna say that to my face?"_

_"Hey bitch, yeah you heard me," he spat._

_ Natasha unhooked Clint from her side and rested him against the wall. Then she stepped back into the bathroom and waved her hand for his brother to continue._

_Barney wiped his sleeve under his bloodied nose. "Yeah, who do you think you are, you fuckin' slut, coming into MY house and-"_

_ The thunk of his head colliding with the granite countertop followed by the thump of his body hitting the tile floor were the only sounds that filled the room after Natasha quickly closed the distance between herself and Barney. _

_"You were saying?" she smirked, pivoting on her heels and exiting the room and recollecting Clint. _

_She deposited him in his bed before traveling downstairs in search of the first aid kit. Then she returned and sat on the bed beside him. _

_"That's one nasty bump," she commented as she cleaned the wound. Clint just smiled, wincing at the sting of the disinfectant. _

_"I've had a hell of a lot worse," he reminded her, "Two words: Marco Polo." _

_Ah right, Marco Polo. It was supposed to be a quick job; one of his first with the Circus. Clint hadn't realized he wasn't alone on the roof until it was too late. Weaponless and caught off guard, an ally of his target that night came at him with a gun. Three shots landed: one in his shoulder, one in his thigh, and one in his non-shooting arm. In the fight that followed, Clint managed to throw his attacker off the roof but he sustained three broken ribs. A couple hours later, Brent found him unconscious on the roof, barely breathing. Clint disappeared for almost a month after the incident before returning with scars and a new found sense of paranoia. _

_She ground her teeth at the memory; it was over a year ago but just the thought of it made her blood pressure spike. _

_After the gash was stitched and she fed him a handful of aspirin, she grabbed the alarm clock beside his bed. _

_"I'm setting this for three hours," she told him, "Don't sleep for too long, drink lots of water, and no tv."_

_"Aye, aye Doctor Romanoff," Clint mumbled as he failed at stiffing a yawn, "Whatever you...say..."_

_Light snores began emanating from his chest and Natasha smiled softly. She rose from the bed and lightly flew down the stairs. _

_Hand on the doorknob, she paused when she heard heavy, unmistakable footsteps stop at the top of the stairs. Her neck snapped up at the sound of his voice._

_"If I so much as see you in my house ever again," Barney growled from the banister, blood covering his face and the front of his shirt, "well, let's just say it won't be pleasant for any of us. And that's a promise. Do you understand?"_

_Natasha's jaw locked and she nodded once. With unnecessary force, she pulled the front door open and slammed it behind her._

* * *

Forks clanged against empty plates as the duo silently washed the dishes; he rinsed and she dried.

"So is that why you left?" she asked abruptly when he handed her a dripping wet glass, putting all the pieces of the puzzle together.

He just nodded.

"You found out what Brent had done to your parents so you retired from the Circus."

He nodded again.

She scoffed, resting the dryer glass on the counter before turning to face him. "when you figured it out... how did you not kill him, right there and then?"

"Oh, I wanted to, more than anything, " he admitted, passing over a handful of silverware, "But it was a strategic move, really. I knew I was barely going to get out of there alive if I played all my cards right. Killing the ring leader there would have been suicide.

"They weren't happy though," he continued, "and they promised if they ever saw me again, they'd kill me. And i guess you know the rest," he sighed, waving a plate at her wound, "It went better than I thought it was going to. But I never stopped planing Brent's death..." he trailed off, staring into the soapy water. Then he glanced up at her. "I was never going to do it in public like that. But when I saw you like that on the ground... I couldn't let him live any longer."

She placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it softly. He sighed and they returned to washing the dishes in silence.

Suddenly, his brother stumbled into the kitchen, growling and mumbling profanities to himself. His brother continued past them, scowling at the pair but making no other motions towards them, and proceeded to the fridge where he snagged two bottles of beer. After unscrewing and chugging the first, his brother staggered back the way came, beer in hand, muttering something about a mutiny in his own home before pausing in the archway.

"I hope your ready for the shit storm you unleashed, Clinty," his brother reprimanded, calling back as he exited the room, "because the Circus coming to town."

* * *

**Dun dun duuuun. **

**I just wanted to take the time to say thank you for all of the great feedback I've been getting about this story and thank you for staying with me all this time. You guys rock!**

**Let me know what you thought! The next chapter should be up within a week. **


	10. A New Life

**It's baaack! With its last and final chapter. If you've been following this story since its beginning some odd months ago, I'd like to just bring you in for a group hug, because you've had to put up with my less than regular updates. I hope you didn't think I abandoned you! The lesson here, kids, is to not take on three stories at a time. **

**Anyway, I've wanted this story to wind down to a close for a while now. But in the spirit of our two master assassins, they aren't going out without a fight. Literally.**

**I don't own Marvel, etc.**

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_"I hope you're ready for the shit storm you unleashed, Clinty, because the Circus is coming to town."_

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It had been three days since his brother forebodingly suggested a looming counterattack by the Circus Gang for the murder of their Ring Leader. But with each passing day, the likelihood of an attack lowered. Three days of guarding windows, keeping watch, taking sleeping shifts, and all around paranoia seemed to be for nothing. Or so they hoped.

Neither of them had mentioned the kiss since that day, but their relationship had silently morphed into an even more intimate affair. They sat in the living room, entangled on the couch that has served his bed while she recovered. His arm was wrapped around her waist, securing her tightly to his side, and her legs were curled around his as she rested her head on his shoulder. Suddenly, the television cut to black, the hum of the air conditioning unit died down, and all the lights switched off.

"Did Barney do something to the power?" she asked as the house was plunged into near darkness, the only light stemming from the nearly hidden sun quickly dipping below the horizon.

"Barney isn't home," he jumped to his feet. He made a slit in the curtains to peak out into the neighborhood. "It's just us."

"Fuck," she growled, propelling herself off the couch. She rushed to the old piano his mother used to play religiously- it was one of the few things they had left to remember her by- and pushed the cover off kilter, revealing the inner workings of the instrument. From inside, she pulled a pistol, a bow, and a small sheath of arrows.

"Grab the grenade too," he told her as he secured the sheath around his body.

"The what?" she exclaimed as she checked the ammo on her weapon.

"The smoke grenade," he specified, "It should be next to the shotgun."

She reached back inside the piano and retrieved the small canister. "This is one hell of a stock pile, Barton," she snorted, cocking her gun.

"You should see the attic," he smirked briefly before re-covering the piano. The clanging metal of the fence guarding their property caused them both to freeze for a moment, listening to judge the numbers of their incoming attackers. They estimated at five.

"Well this isn't much of a fair fight," she whispered with a grin as they fell into position. Darkness would be their ally. And with the sun almost completely gone, darkness is what they had. She was nearly invisible as she shrunk down next to the opening of the half wall, her back towards the kitchen, guns at the ready.

"They never are," he chuckled quietly from his perch on the stair railing as he took aim down the hallway,

"Nat," he whispered after a moment so quietly that she almost didn't hear it.

"Yeah?" she replied in an equally low tone.

"Try not to get shot is time."

A small smirk tugged at the corner of her lips for a moment before her composure returned, and offered a slight nod in return.

The shriek of glass shattering in the kitchen was followed by the slam of the back door swinging to hit the wall. She tilted her her to peer from behind the half wall, and she saw a number of men, dressed from head to toe in black, march into their house."You think they're home?" they heard one of the black-clad men ask.

"Shut the fuck up, Donnie," the fourth one in the door hissed back, "They're home."

She glanced over to the staircase, where the archer was crouched, bow ready and arrow in hand. Taking a deep but silent breath, she reached beside her for he smoke grenade. She mouthed the countdown to him before pulling the pin and tossing it down the hallway.

"Hey what was-"

Smoke erupted from the canister and in moments the entire kitchen was clouded in the thick gas. A loosed arrow zoomed into the smoky room, and a deep grunt signaled a hit. In the next second, another arrow was released, receiving the same results. But before the third arrow was let, a thud from the floor above jolted the archer from his focus. He dropped back and looked to the girl with the guns across from him.

"Go!" she mouthed to him as footsteps began to sound. He nodded and raced upstairs to take care of the other intruders. As her archer disappeared upstairs, she heard the remaining men in the kitchen move about.

"You two," she heard one of them growl a whisper, "check the next room." The two men did as they were ordered and they quickly advanced on her position.

When the first man unknowingly arrived to her location, he was greeted with a swift uppercut to his chin. Before her attack had even registered with the now disoriented man, she grabbed his body and whipped around 180 degrees to face the other end of the hallway.

The man's chest serviced as a decent shield from the wild rounds being shot by his accomplice. She only needed to return fire once, landing a direct headshot. As the body at the end of the hall dropped, she released the dead weight in her arms and let that body sink to the floor.

As she approached the kitchen, the smoke was beginning to thin. A wild arm swung out to meet her as she entered the room, but she was expecting it. She ducked, jutting her elbow out to catch her attackers stomach. When he buckled over, she slammed the butt of her pistol between his shoulder blades. Her eyes searched the room for others in the now only slightly smoky room, but she was alone minus the two arrow stricken bodies beside the table.

Suddenly, there was an arm wrapped tightly around her neck, closing off her airway as it jerked her off the floor. She swing her feet forward and brought them back to connect with her attackers left kneecap. One satisfying crunch later, they both fell to the floor, where she wriggled out of the chokehold. With a growl, she embedded a bullet in the man's brain; which is what she should have done ten seconds ago. Then two shots resonated from upstairs.

"Shit," she jumped, darting towards the staircase, maneuvering over the two bloodied bodies sprawled across the hall. Another shot chimed from the second floor as she took the steps two at a time.

Laying dangling over the banister at the top was a man with an arrow protruding from his back. Another man ten feet away was similarly injured in the chest, with the upper portion of his body propped up against the wall. She stepped over the dead man's legs and cautiously turned the corner. A close-ranged bullet whizzed by her head; the man who fired it was only three feet in front of her. Springing into action, she took the man by the wrist and pounded it into the wall beside them, causing him to release the weapon from his hand and let it fall to the ground. Without pausing, she kicked her legs up and locked her thighs around the man's neck. Then she jerked her body downward, sending him flipping to the ground.

As she unhooked her legs from the toppled over man, another bullet rushed past her, this time just grazing her arm. She rolled to the side and fired two rounds towards the staircase. The sound of the man tumbling to the floor below followed. She and her archer had seriously underestimated the level to which the Circus wanted them dead; her count was at nine men down. Speaking of which, she had yet to see him since he disappeared up here. With fresh worry, she used the wall to pull herself up, determined to find him alive.

But as she stood, she failed to notice the man she toppled to the ground had returned to his feet until his fist connected with her side, disturbing the not-quite-healed wound from the grocery store shootout. With a pained cry she collapsed to the ground, and the man, quite pleased with himself, loomed over her, aiming the gun between her eyebrows. "Say goodbye!"

A shout from the end of the hallway distracted the gunman momentarily, and he turned just in time to see the arrow barreling towards his eye.

"Goodbye," she spat ironically through gritted teeth as the body hit the floor, grasping her side as she moved to sit up. She peered up at her archer momentarily before returning her eyes to her side. "Is that all of them?"

"I think so," he grunted, yanking the arrow from the dead man's eye socket before kneeling beside her. But she knew him too well to let that tone of voice pass, and she could tell he was trying to hide something. Her eyes moved upwards to his face and, in the almost non-existent light, she could see the slight scrunch of his mouth and his eyes squeezed tightly together like miniature clamps.

"Clint," her voice was worried but almost teasing, in a way only she could be, as she moved to her knees, "where'd you get hit?"

"Left shoulder," he admitted, dropping his bow and resting his head against the wall.

"You're shooting arm?" she gasped.

"Yeah.

""When-"

"The first guy I came across- the one on the railing," he chuckled darkly as he shook his head. "Hurt's like a bitch, too."

She allowed herself to smile softly as she pulled herself to her feet, then offered a arm to her injured partner on the ground,

"And here I thought the 'don't get shot' was a mutual declaration."

He barked a short laugh and accepted the help to his feet, clasping her forearm with his good arm. "Well that was my intention, but you know, 'the best laid plans...'"

"Alright, Robert Burns," she quipped with a smirk, "Go lie down."

"Aye aye, Captain Romanoff." He would have mock saluted but as he went to raise his arm, he remembered the bulled nestled in his shoulder and instead just ambled into the bedroom. She rolled her eyes as she stepped over the various bodies covering the now deeply stained carpet. Carefully, he settled himself into the bed. A hiss escaped his lips as his back connected with the mattress. At least this was better than the couch.

With full arms, she barged into the room. She pulled something out of her mouth and handed it to him, "Keep the flashlight steady."

He flicked the switch. As he was instructed, he kept the circle of light directly over the wound as she worked to remove the bullet.

"Quit fidgeting, Barton," she ordered, tearing away his shirt for a better access point.

"Hsss- sorry," he sucked in a breath, "Do you- ah- still have the three thousand dollars?"

"Mhmm," she nodded, deep in concentration.

"Do you think you could get more?"

She glanced at him sideways before returning her eyes to the wound, "Yeah... What are you planning?"

"Let's- ow, watch it!," he exclaimed when something was tugged the wrong way.

"Shhh," she quieted him, repositioning his hand so she had better light, "What were you saying?"

"I was thinking that we should skip town- ow! Jesus, Nat!" She waved the tweezers with the bullet between their tongs in front of his eyes and grinned smugly. But then the smile faded as she took a moment to think over his proposal.

"Leave?" she inquired. It was a merited plan; what was left for them here? Family certainly wasn't. Not to mention that once the Circus caught wind of this little fiasco, an even steeper price would be demanded for their heads. And it would be simple enough to just pack up his car and leave for god knows where. She had been wanting to leave this retched town since before she can remember. In fact, the only thing that had kept her tethered here was, well... him.

"Yeah, well, I mean-" he began to blabber, mistaking her tone for skepticism and rejection.

"Okay," she shrugged, pulling him upright to a sitting position so she could bandage the wound.

"Okay?" he repeated doubtfully.

"Why not? We're not safe here. And besides, dumping the nine bodies would be a hassle," she added with a light smile.

"Nine?" his eyebrows shot up.

"Yeah, something about you killing a mob boss didn't go over very well," she snorted.

"I'm flattered," he smirked as his confidence returned, a little too proud that the nearly 5:1 ratio still played out in their favor, "not that it did them much good."

She chuckled as she finished dressing the wound. Once the bandage was securely wrapped, she pushed herself off the bed and began rummaging around the room.

"Bags are on the top shelf in the closet," he reminded her absentmindedly as he reached for a fresh shirt in a pile on his desk and pulled it over his head.

She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and pulled a duffle bag out from the closet. "What's already in the car?"

He scratched at his temple as he attempted to remember what was residing in his trunk, "Uh, my good bow, sixteen arrows, three- no four pistols, two boxes of ammo, a decent amount of knives, and maybe a shotgun. Oh and a case of beer."

"Alright, take this bag," she tossed him the camouflage duffle, "and stuff some clothes into it. My backpack should be by the bed somewhere; move all the stuff from it into that one. When you're done, bring it to the car. I'll go downstairs and grab some food for the road because I want to get out of the state before-" The warm pressure of his lips against her's silenced her aloud thinking process. It wasn't urgent or fiery or burning with intensity like their first; it was soft, gentle, and intimately tender. Then he pulled away- much too soon for her liking. "What was that for?" she asked with a timid smile, her eyes glowing softly against the moonlight streaming into the room.

He smiled at the question as he used his thumb to brush a stray hair from her face; even in this light, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on."For going along with this," he replied with a growing grin.

She halfheartedly rolled her eyes as her smile stretched lopsidedly to one side."Yeah, okay, meet me downstairs in five minutes," she held his gaze for a moment before ducking under his arm and darting out of the room.

With a sigh, he threw the bag onto his desk and began packing it with the first t-shirts and jeans he could grab- which was all his wardrobe consisted of. He pulled his leather jacket from its hook and he carefully shrugged into it. After he got the sleeve around his wounded arm, he located her bag. Deciding it would be redundant to unpack her things just to repack them, he stuffed the entire backpack into the other half of the duffle bag. From the bookshelf, he took the framed picture of his parents sitting on the second shelf from the top. After a minute of unsuccessfully attempting to open the back of the frame, he elected to shatter the glass by means of smashing it against the corner of the desk. He then slid the picture out if its now damaged frame and pushed it into his jacket pocket. He did a final once-over of the room before deciding he was content with the items he packed. He wasnt going to miss this place, not one bit. The bag zipped easily and he slung it over his good shoulder.

But as he moved towards the door, a glint from something on the nightstand caught his eye. Upon further inspection, it was the aged photograph, the one with the colors washed and the paper thinning. A smile smile tugged at his lips as he stared at the younger, innocent versions of himself and his best friend. He took the picture from its place propped against the lamp and slid it into the same pocket where the one of his parents currently lodged.

"I checked the perimeter: were clear. Let's go," she told him as he sauntered downstairs.

Smirking back, and tossed her the keys- which she caught effortlessly in one hand- as he stepped out the door, "You drive."

With her hand on the doorknob, she spared one last glimpse at the house that served as her home for the past week. It was the first home she had in years. But now it was just a glorified graveyard; bodies were crumpled, sprawled, and collapsed throughout the darkened interior. Now it was just a house again.

"You coming?" he called to her as he slammed the trunk shut with one arm, pulling her from her thoughts.

But then she realized, the thing that made this stack of wood and roofing tiles a home was leaving with her. And suddenly, leaving became the greatest decision she had ever made.

"Yeah," she whispered to herself with a satisfied smile. She swung the door shut behind her and strolled over to the drivers seat. When the key met the ignition, the engine roared to life before settling down to a purr. "Any particular destination in mind, Hawk?" she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

"Anywhere."

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**That brings us to the end, folks! I hoped you enjoyed the ride. It got a little mushy towards the end, and maybe even a little clichèd, but I'm happy with it. Maybe if I find the muse, I'll write these two a short epilogue. **

**And thank you guys again, for taking the time read, critique, favorite, and follow this story. I couldn't have done it without your support.**

**With much love,**

**hawkeyethehotguy**


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